By seven the garden trellis had gone quiet in a blue way. Each morning-glory horn unrolled a paper the size of a postage stamp, bowed to the first bee, and waited for the brick wall to nod before playing exactly one measure.
We asked at the corner kiosk. A woman with a watering can said the music was not loud enough to wake the cat, only enough to tell the paint which shade of sky to be. A boy in line claimed the bees kept time with their wings.
The gardener pinned a card to the lowest slat. The scores are only so the vines will not rush, it read. If a bee is still nodding, the wall already knows. Come back after one measure has been played.